


The Kindness of Chance

by ValmureEld (InkSiren)



Series: I Tried Not to Get Into the Witcher and Look Where That Got Me [4]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Buried Alive, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Kind Strangers, Near Death, Near Death Experiences, Whump, people are afraid of witchers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-21
Updated: 2020-01-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:00:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22341454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InkSiren/pseuds/ValmureEld
Summary: When Geralt is alone and unable to defend himself, some well meaning strangers could very well be the difference between recovery and a premature death.ORWitchers have a potion that makes them look dead and I couldn't resist exploring that.
Series: I Tried Not to Get Into the Witcher and Look Where That Got Me [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/924813
Comments: 20
Kudos: 274





	1. Sleep

**Author's Note:**

> Hello I told some of you all I'm not done with this fandom and well...happy 100th fic in my profile of course it's Witcher whump. 
> 
> With the advent of the Netflix show and the thousands of new fans (Welcome!!) I figure now is as good a time as any to work on posting this fic inspired by the first attempted TV show made in Poland a few years back--in it Geralt takes a potion after his injury that leads him to talking to Visenna and warns the man with him that he would fall into a deep sleep and look dead. "But don't bury me, I'll be alive."
> 
> How can I *not* take that prompt?

The problem with being a Witcher was not usually related to the job or the stigma or the danger of it. All of that most people dealt with in their lives in some way or another, and Geralt didn’t waste energy if he could help it being upset about it. Most jobs were dangerous, the stigma was unique but ancient, and he was reminded how lucky he was when he passed witch burning pyres in Novigrad. The witch hunters might talk a big game but few had actually had the guts no never mind the ability to actually tangle with him. 

No, the real issue when it came down to things was that, when it mattered, he was often alone. So many impossible situations turned almost easy when you had someone to reach back, but out in the middle of farmland on a shivering night, Geralt’s fate was in his own bloodied hands.

Clutching his side, arm pressed stiffly against ribs, he limped through an icy drizzle, finding that even with bruised ribs, a freshly dislocated shoulder, and profuse bleeding, the primary clear thought in his head was of his poor mare. 

She’d bolted during the battle, and with the chaos and spray of blood he truly didn’t know if she’d been injured and was either a meal or suffering miserably somewhere he couldn’t reach her. He’d lost several good mounts and still felt guilty for each one, and it was twisting his stomach that she still hadn’t come back. This Roach shied a little sooner than some of his previous, but she also seemed able to find him no matter what or where. 

And she always came back.

Feeling the drain and shiver of blood loss as his core temperature dropped dangerously, Geralt dropped his head and leaned on a tree, warring with himself about how to survive the night. The one warm spot on his body was from his side, where he was still bleeding far too much. Most of his potions were on Roach, so really, his decision was pretty easy. 

It was also potentially a horrific kind of suicide, depending on who or what found him.

Reaching into his jacket, Geralt withdrew a vial that glowed a soft green in the dark. His choice really, was made for him. The vial would slow the bleeding, turn his metabolism inward to stabilize the damage, and send him into a state of intensified healing. 

All things that he desperately needed. 

The problem was it left him completely defenseless. He’d be in a sleep so deep he would be physically incapable of waking, and his vitals would be slowed to the point of non-detection. He’d be a corpse without the advantage of actually being dead and therefore indifferent to how his remains were treated. If he passed out in the open, it was ten to one he’d get eaten alive by scavengers. Wolves if he was lucky, rotfiends if he wasn’t. 

He grimaced, grasping the cork in his teeth. It would probably be rotfiends.

He spat it into the dirt and swallowed dryly before glancing up one more time, straining his night vision to its limits to see if he had any better options at all.

Just as he was about to resign himself to playing dead under the tree, he spotted the flat wall of someone’s splintered shack of a barn and he felt an irrational relief. A human finding him probably wouldn’t eat him...but that didn’t make burial or burning any more appealing. 

Between humans and rotfiends though, Geralt would chance it with the humans.

He made it to the barn and pushed the door through its muddy path, catching himself on it with a breathless gasp as it torqued his bad shoulder. Hissing oxygen back into his lungs through clenched teeth, he managed to get inside and shove the door shut, turning and limping as far into the corner as he could before his knee gave way and he fell with a strangled cry. His vision darkening rapidly and his heart a sickening flutter in his throat, Geralt managed to raise the vial to his lips.

He didn’t taste it, and was unconscious before he hit the straw.


	2. Burial

At dawn, the farmer went shivering to his barn, seeking a better bucket to drag to the well. A shadow in the corner stopped him cold, and for a long, breathless moment he stared at the gleaming sword resting on the figure’s back. 

Nothing moved, and when he could hear the birdsong of sunrise over his pounding heart he ventured, slowly, forward. 

“H-hello? Sir?” 

His breath fogged and he swallowed dryly, shuffling through the straw as he dared to crouch and tap the man’s boot. 

No response. A little closer, and he saw the blood, and his fear turned to concern. The man was laying face down, blood everywhere, and even with the cold morning there was no fog coming from beneath his hair. He was lying on his stomach, head turned to the side, eyes closed. 

Concern turned to pity, and the farmer knelt, gently settling a hand on the cold surface of the man’s leather armor. A glint of silver caught his eye and he picked a medallion out of the dirt, smoothing his thumb across the snarling wolf head. 

His breath caught, and his eyes darted to the still face.

A witcher. 

For a moment, he thought about running, but the way he’d been raised wouldn’t allow it. The man was injured, probably dead, and it didn’t matter what he was he deserved the dignity of a burial. Slowly, heart pounding, the farmer shuffled closer on his knee and smoothed back the dirty hair, touching the witcher’s face. The skin was icy and he didn’t respond at all. 

“Oh, you pitiful creature,” he murmured, slipping two fingers beneath the black collar, just in case.

The witcher was lifeless, and the farmer pulled his hand away, bowing his head for a moment in respect before looking at the body again with pity. The man was in poor shape, and had probably died in a great deal of pain. Blood caked the side of his armor, and when he gripped the cold side to roll him over, it was plain his shoulder had been dislocated. 

“I’m sorry I couldn’t have found you sooner,” he apologized, closing his hands on his tunic and casting around for some rag to at least wipe the blood from the witcher’s face. “I’m no healer...but at least you wouldn’t have had to pass on alone. I know they say you feel nothing, but...you still look like a man and you bled and died like one so I don’t believe it.” 

Seeing an old stable blanket, the farmer crossed to it and tore strips away from decaying cloth, about to return to the witcher’s body before thinking better of it and grabbing the bucket instead.

When he returned, it was with water and with his wife.

“Oh--Mavin,” Terra gasped, gripping her husband’s tunic as she covered her mouth with a hand. “The poor thing…”

“I know...here, help me set his shoulder right. The least we can do is bury him comfortable.” 

She nodded, biting her lip as she shifted her skirts and settled behind the witcher’s white head. 

“I wonder what got him…” she said sadly, casting her eyes over the blood as her husband manipulated the shoulder, working the joint until he felt it pop back into place. Even knowing the witcher couldn’t feel it any longer, Terra winced for him and stroked his hair back in a soothing gesture.

Together, they bathed him, cleaning the wound as best they could without unstrapping his armor. Terra wiped the mud and blood away from the silver medallion and rest it gently on the witcher’s breast, murmuring a prayer to Melitele as she did so.

“I’ll...I’ll go find him a place. Out by the tree,” Mavin said quietly. “Go back to Ronin, he’ll be awake soon and I don’t want him seeing this.”

Terra shook her head, looking ill at the prospect. “Nor do I…” she paused, gripping Mavin’s wrist. “You’re doing a noble thing, and I love you for it. There’s a daffodil...first of the season blooming near the door. I’ll bring Ronin to pay respects once he’s in the ground.”

It was hard work, with the ground freshly thawed, but Mavin managed a decent enough, if shallow, grave for the witcher. Getting him to it was difficult, but Mavin worked with as much dignity as he could, heavy as the body was. He did his best to lower the witcher gently, apologizing softly as he laid his head down in the cold dirt. He took a moment longer, looking at the young face and shaking his head at the waste of it all before shoveling dirt onto the black breastplate. 

The morning cold had broken into a warmer spring day when Terra and Ronin came to visit the grave. Mavin had left it as tidy as possible, and they kept Ronin away from the barn, unwilling to let an eight year old see that much blood.

What they found was a great deal more disturbing than mere blood.


	3. All is Well

Terra gripped Ronin, shoving him behind her skirts with a clumsy hand and biting back a scream. Horror and panic washed through her at the same time, freezing her in place. When she was able to act, it came out as a distressed shout.

“Mavin! Mavin, come help me!” she cried, scrambling forward and falling to her knees in the mud.

The grave had been disturbed, dug up from the inside out, and though she knew nothing of how actual necrophages of any kind worked, for a horrific moment her mind had told her the witcher turned in his grave. The next moment saw a twitch in the body, still laying face down in the mud. A twitch of the man’s muscles trying to turn him over, but too exhausted to do so.

Mavin came scrambling up behind her, touching Ronin’s startled shoulder as he passed. “What--oh sweet powers…”

“He was still alive,” Terra choked, pulling at the witcher’s heavy shoulder to try and roll him over. His legs were still partly buried, and he weighed twice as much as she did. The water soaking his clothing and armor did nothing to help, and she strained to get him onto his back in her lap. Caked with mud, his eyes were closed, and he did not appear to be breathing. Mavin was at her side on his knees, scrambling for a buckle.

“Get his breastplate off, maybe he’ll start breathin--” She nodded, helping her husband lift the waterlogged armor. Beneath, the witcher wore only a black tunic and his medallion thudded dully against his chest as they scrambled to help him.

“Come on, you did all that work and now you’re going to give up?” Mavin scolded, digging harsh knuckles into the witcher’s chest. “Come on….come on breathe damn you…”

Terra held onto the witcher while Mavin tried to rouse him, but looked up to see Ronin standing there stunned. “Ronin, go fetch some water. Quick.” The boy’s eyes were wide, but he obeyed instantly, racing off towards the well.

“Come on…” Mavin pleaded, shaking the man harshly.

“Sweetheart, stop…” Terra said gently, using some of her skirt to clear mud away from the witcher’s mouth and nose. “He’s exhausted, I’m not sure he has anything left in him to be shocked back...he has to want to come back.”

“Clearly he wanted to a moment ago,” Mavin said desperately, gesturing to the grave.

“Come on, Witcher,” Terra said gently, adjusting his head to lay in the crook of her arm like he was a child. She stroked back his hair, settled her hand on the side of his face. “There, see, you’re so warm now. Breathe for me. Please...you’ve come this far just--”

The silence between them was broken by a gasp as the witcher’s mouth opened and he pressed into Terra’s grip, his lungs filling deep and fast. Terra’s expression lit up and she held onto him as he began to cough, his body struggling to get back all it had been deprived of. His muscles trembled against her arm, and he was gasping like a newborn chick, but his heat was seeping through her skirts and when she settled a light hand on his chest she could feel a powerful heart beating inside.

She met Mavin’s eyes with a bright smile, tears pooling in her own.

“It’s a miracle…” Mavin said, glancing from his wife down to the witcher. Ronin came running back, carrying an over-full bucket that slopped onto his shoes. The poor child was white as the witcher’s hair and almost as dirty, looking distressed.

“Mum, is he okay? Is he going to eat us?” he asked, stopping just short of the witcher’s still buried boot.

“Eat us--” Terra shook her head. “Don’t be silly, Ronin. He’s just a man who’s had a very bad day. He eats bread and animal meat just like you do. Do you see claws or fangs? Now come, help Dad clean him up while I prepare a bed.”

Ronin glanced suspiciously at the witcher’s limp hand before straightening his spine a little more and walking forward, holding the bucket out to his father. Mavin took it and then shouldered the witcher’s body in his lap so he wouldn’t have to lay on the cold ground when Terra got up.

__

“What do you think caused it?”

“I haven’t a clue...he was lifeless. I must have missed…”

“We both did, don’t start blaming yourself.”

“Hard not to, what sort of a man can’t tell another is still alive?”

Geralt groaned, and the two voices fell silent. His brow wrinkled and he tested his muscles, shifting gingerly. Everything hurt, but he wasn’t buried in icy mud anymore and breathing was easier. So that was good.

“The kind that hasn’t met a witcher before,” he said under his breath, cracking open a golden eye before turning his head to look at his helpers properly. “Please...don’t blame yourselves. A shallow grave was more than I had hoped for. Thank you.”

“It was only shallow because the ground was barely thawed, I can’t take credit for that,” the man said, kneeling at Geralt’s side. “Please, I know you think you have nothing to forgive, but forgive me my mistake? If I’d realized…”

The man paled, and Geralt hummed, waving a hand. “You’re forgiven. Wasn’t so bad...kept me from being nibbled on by rats.”

The man paled a little farther and Geralt shifted to look at the woman. He gave her a nod, wincing slightly. “Thank you for the bed, lady…?”

The woman flushed. “Lady--oh no sir. My name is Terra. And it was the least we could do.” She came forward, gesturing to the fireplace where a warm hearth held several kettles. “We have two kinds of tea and some broth...if you can stomach it?”

Carefully, Geralt tested his body and deemed it safe enough to sit up. He shifted, the man’s hand coming out in a startled gesture to try and steady him. That’s when he realized his armor and sword were nowhere nearby. He swallowed, his heart thudding a tad faster. “My weapon?” he asked.

“Just there, sir. And your armor. You weren’t breathing when we found you and everything was so caked in mud…” the man explained, his tone apologetic. Geralt relaxed as he saw his gear sitting on their rough table, nodding once. Terra came back with a warm cup that smelled like thistle and Geralt accepted it gratefully, wanting to get the taste of dirt out of his mouth. He was downplaying how panicked he’d felt waking up buried, but it wasn’t their fault and he didn’t want them feeling more guilty over it.

“What killed you?”

Geralt startled, almost spilling his tea as he turned his head to see a young boy suddenly at the side of his bed.

“Ronin!” Terra scolded, but Geralt cracked a smile and took a sip, shaking his head once. “No...he’s fine. It was a fiend. Do you know what that is?”

The boy’s eyes were wide, and he shook his head. Geralt leaned closer. “Picture a deer as big as your house, then give it a bear’s body and an eye...right there--” he said, leaning forward and tapping the boy’s forehead. “That’s a fiend.”

The boy gaped. “Did you kill it?”

“I did.”

“And how did you come back from the dead?”

“I didn’t. I wasn’t really dead after all--I have a potion to help me when I’m very hurt that makes it difficult to tell, though.”

He glanced up at the parents, hoping they would believe him.

“Alright, Ronin that’s enough, the man’s tired,” the father scolded gently, ushering the boy away. Geralt winked at him, and then went back to sip at his tea.

“I’m Mavin,” the man said, bringing over a bowl of the broth next. “Is there anything else you need?”

Geralt shook his head once, setting the cup carefully between his legs as he folded them before reaching for the broth. “I’m Geralt. And no, Mavin, thank you. Both. I will repay you for this.”

“You owe us nothing,” Mavin insisted, but Geralt shook his head.

“I owe you my life, most likely. That potion leaves me defenseless. Anyone else could have finished me off, pawned my sword--you chose not to. That’s not only saving me now, and I don’t leave debts unpaid. I only wish...”

“Ma!”

Geralt raised an eyebrow, turning his head towards Ronin’s call.

“Ronin,” Terra tutted, going to the door.

"But Ma, look! A deer with an eye in its forehead!"

“What nonsense--oh. Master witcher ...you don’t happen to own a chestnut mare...do you?”

Geralt grinned in relief and rest his back against the headboard. _Now_ he could relax.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Roach is fine don't fret.


End file.
